Exchange

I am fearfully made and I imaginethe sleek curves of my kidneys andthe round red onion shape of my bladder.I will never see those parts with their perfect forms,their elegant overlaps sealed in my skin.All I know is their transparent function, or its change,or that blind nerve dance we call pain.

I will never see those long pale ropes that takemy food and turn it to steps or speech. All I knowis the wonder of containing such exchange,that lets the morning eggs and the noon breadrise as song in the kitchen, laughter in the back yard,rise as indignation, care, or grieving,rise as love or longing or belated thanks.